


He Keeps Me Warm

by Waywardwiz



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 05:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8877595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywardwiz/pseuds/Waywardwiz
Summary: It is winter and Snufkin has to leave. This time it's harder, though, and Snufkin wonders why."Moomin will be upset but ultimately fine. It is Snufkin’s heart that hurts, just as much as the troll’s, maybe even more so, whenever they have to say their farewells. And once the last tearful, “goodbye then, Snufkin” drifts into the air on wings of silence, Snufkin wonders."Snufkin/Moomin if you squint. But you don't have to squint a lot.





	

**He Keeps Me Warm**

It is getting harder and harder to leave. With every passing year, packing his backpack and rolling up his sleeping mat takes longer and longer, and he keeps finding excuses to stay, ignoring the signs – the five fishes, the chill in the air, the leaves changing colours from vibrant shades of green to a dull, rusty brown. He tells himself time and time again that Moomin would be fine. He will hibernate and dream about old adventures and new ones better suited for spring than winter and when he wakes up, Snufkin will be there. He always is, isn’t he? And he is a vagabond, has been forever, really, and the small troll _knows_ that. He knows what is to be expected when autumn rolls around. Snufkin spends most of his year in Moomin Valley, it isn’t fair for them to want more from him. He likes to think that the reason he finds more and more outlandish reasons to stall his departure is that Moomin wants him to stay, that he will simply be devastated without his friend, and so the young man in the green coat has to stay for his sake.

But Snufkin knows it to be a lie, and he is ashamed that he tries to push the blame for his own doubts on to Moomin. Moomin will be upset but ultimately fine. It is Snufkin’s heart that hurts, just as much as the troll’s, maybe even more so, whenever they have to say their farewells. And once the last tearful, “goodbye then, Snufkin” drifts into the air on wings of silence, Snufkin wonders. He wonders why he needs to do this, why he can’t just _stay_. Just once. He is a wanderer, yes. That is what he does, what he has always contended with doing, but these last few years, well… What drives him to it? What fuels his stubbornness and why does the thrill of the journey no longer outweigh everything else?  It must be because he cares. With every month, every day, he _cares_ more and more, and he cannot make himself wish that he didn’t.

This year, winter comes early. It arrives with the harsh winds, bitter and sharp against sensitive cheeks. It comes with the gnarled, naked branches, black and skeletal, with the stormy grey sky and the deafening quietness that fills the Valley as its’ inhabitants find shelters for themselves and their young. It comes with the snow, a white and relentless torrent, and it comes with Moomin’s usual question, “are you leaving now?”

His voice is so soft that Snufkin has to lean in close to hear the words properly. He is about to pad him on the arm but then decides against it, opting instead to wrap his own arm around his friend’s shoulders, tugging him closer. His chest aches with a sad, lonely, hushed sort of misery that drapes itself around him like a leaden blanket and he suddenly feels cold all the way into his bones, a hollow sort of frost that has him shivering even in the welcoming warmth of the Moomin house. Little My, Mamma and Pappa have already gone to bed, the latter two with bellies full of pine needles, as tradition calls for, and Moomin and Snufkin are sitting alone on the carpet in front of the hearth.  
“I am. I’m all packed up, you see” he replies, throat tight around his false cheerfulness. A brave face, he tells himself, _Moomin needs a brave face_.  
He gestures to his bag, supported against the door with his hat placed carefully on top, and says reluctantly, “and I have to go soon, or it will be too cold. I’m staying until you go upstairs. You’ll hibernate, and…”

He gently squeezes Moomin’s shoulder, and then he begin to soothingly stroke the smooth white fur in the hollow of his clavicle, “you’re going to be fine”  
_Yes_ a voice in his head interjects, somehow both a mild whisper and a loud roar, _but what about you?_  
Moomin sobs, a wet little hiccupping sound, and rests his forehead against Snufkin’s neck. He doesn’t say anything and Snufkin figures that is for the best. In the state he is in, this storm of emotions, any objection from Moomin might just make him change his mind. He hugs the little creature closer, holds him in a tight embrace and murmurs small, soothing words to Moomin as he starts to shake, then whimper, then weep. His tears are silent and warm against Snufskin’s skin.

“Moomin” he says, trying to sound resolute, sensible, but failing to hide the raw emotion in his voice, “please don’t cry, Moomin, it will feel like no time at all”.  
He says it as much to convince himself as to calm Moomin down. There is wetness on the curve of his cheekbones and as he reaches up to dry it off he realizes with a detached sort of surprise that he is crying, too. He hasn’t done that before, at least not in front of Moomin. He rubs at his face roughly, but new tears spring forth and make his eyes burn and he cannot seem to stop their flow. He doesn’t trust his voice not to quaver and break, so he doesn’t speak.

 Moomin does, though.  
He draws in a deep breath and tilts his head back so that he can look at Snufkin, “what if I wake up?”  
“What?” Snufkin says, his fretful mind having trouble keeping up with his friend’s trail of thoughts at first.  
“I woke up from hibernation once” the troll insists, “what if I do so again? You won’t be here”  
“Moomin – “  
“So” Moomin interrupts him, his dark eyes bright and stubborn, “you should stay. I know you want to, I don’t understand why you leave when you would much rather stay. We can be awake together. So stay. Won’t you, please?” he adds the last part like an afterthought, like politeness might help his case, and takes Snufkin’s free hand in his own.

Snufkin feels his resolve crumbling and, after having carefully extracted his arm from around Moomin, he rises to his feet shakily, putting a hand against the wall to keep him steady. He crosses the room to the door and picks up his hat with fumbling fingers, mouth set in a taut line and eyes focused on his rucksack. He wills his hands to stop shaking and the tears to cease falling but it seems he has lost control over his body. His eyes snap shot when he hears noises behind him, Moomin scrambling to his feet and coming closer, slowly, carefully, like Snufkin is a skittish forest thing.

His voice is so tiny and tight with regret as he says, “I’m sorry, please don’t be mad. I didn’t mean… I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to. I just thought…” He stops, whatever he was going to say lost in the tenseness between them.  
Snufkin turns around, schooling his facial features into a somewhat more pleasant expression. He wonders if his smile looks at ugly and distorted as it feels. Moomin’s ears lie limp against his forehead and along with the forlorn look on his face he just looks so sad and dejected that Snufkin feels like the worst person in the world.

“It’s fine” he says, raising his hands in a placating gesture, smiling that smile that isn’t nearly good enough, “I’m not mad, I could never be mad at you”  
At least that part is true. What follows isn’t, and he can see on Moomin’s face that he doesn’t believe it either, “but I have to leave. You know me, always on the go. That’s the way it has to be”  
He laughs, but it is an empty sound, devoid of any humour or good cheer.  
Moomin just nods, and he looks so, so disappointed and hurt, even though he clearly tries not to let anything on. But the youngest Moomin has never been any good at hiding what he is feeling. That is one of the best things about him, Snufkin has always thought so. He is so earnest in everything he does, it’s endearing in so many ways. But now it just feels awful awful.  
There is no heat in his voice as he shoulders the strap of his bag and says, “go to bed, Moomin. Sleep. I’ll be back when you wake up”

“I’ll miss you, Snufkin” Moomin says softly, and Snufkin manages a more tender smile this time around.  
He says, “and I will miss you”. They lock eyes and Snufkin feels a sudden yearning burn inside him, a longing to stay that is so intense that it nearly terrifies him. He is a traveller, he certainly doesn’t hibernate. And with that in mind, Snufkin breaks their eye contact. It instantly feels like he has severed something important, and isn’t that ridiculous, it isn’t like their separation is permanent. He nods to no one in particular and opens the door, stepping out into the cascades of snow and howling winds.

As soon as he pulls the door shut behind him, remorse settles heavily in the pit of his stomach, trashing like a caged animal, all claws and teeth. It didn’t use to be this way. It used to be so easy to just pack up and leave, go south. He would think about the Moomins, of cause, miss them, hold them in his heart fondly, tenderly, like a baby bird. But he would also enjoy his lonesomeness, his freedom of not having to be anywhere but where he wanted to. Snufkin has always roamed; he likes it better this way. And so he forces his stiff legs into moving, taking one step at a time away from the tall blue house where some of his best memories have been made.

His apprehension seems to manifest in his body and every move is a struggle. The snow crunches underneath his boots, light and fresh and lovely, and Snufkin is taken aback by how stunningly beautiful Moomin Valley looks like this, all covered in white. There is a muted quality to it, an understated magic that captivates him. He wants to stop and have a proper look, to experience his summer home on the cusp of winter, the rocks and trees and windows decorated with delicate twirls of ice. But stunning as it may all look, it is also cold and Snufkin will surely catch the flu if he doesn’t keep walking. So he does, setting a fast pace, gaze fixed mulishly on his feet, and then on the Lonely Mountains looming in the distance like sleeping giants.

“Come one, Snuf” he admonishes himself, without realizing that he is using the nickname Moomin fondly bestowed upon him in another, sunnier time. It must have been when they were on some exploration, a quest, to where he doesn’t remember, but it makes him feel happy and he finds comfort and warmth in the half-memory. _We’ll go on plenty of great adventures when I return_.  
He pushes on and soon he has put a few miles between himself and the Moomin home.

Then he has to stop to scoop snow out of his boots. His socks are water proof – Moominmamma made them for him with a special kind of downy and resistant wool – but though they keep his feet dry they aren’t quite able to prevent cold from seeping into his skin. He has always prided himself on being resistant to bad weather but for some reason he feels the chill keenly this year. He wonders if it is somehow connected to his reluctance to leave the Valley. Like his entire being is telling him that he is making a mistake, that he should stay. That he is too stubborn and that his independency isn’t taken away from him just because he remains in the same place just this once. Snufkin looks at the grey sky. He looks at the desolate rocks in front of him and the shadows lurking at their feet. The darkness around him claws at him with its’ icy, bony fingers and the wind is tearing at his clothes. Everything ahead of him looks dreary and awful. Everything behind him is welcoming and kind, a promise of love and affection. Behind him is Moomin. And Snufkin suddenly and with an overwhelming sense of clarity knows what he must do.

Moomin is making small, soft noises in his sleep and his paws are closed loosely around the edge of his duvet. He looks peaceful, Snufkin muses as he carefully closes the door behind them. The young troll is curled in on himself and his breathing is calm and measured, but when the other boy steps closer to the bed he sees that the fur beneath Moomin’s closed eyes is wet with fresh tears. Moomin must have cried himself to sleep and at the mere notion something painful and guilty twitches inside Snufkin. It has never truly occurred to him how much he needs to be around Moomin, how much he needs _him_. It does now, though, and Snufkin wastes no time in wiggling out of his coat and taking off his hat before he carefully sits down on the edge of the madras, his weight making an indent.

He toes off his boots and socks and then lifts the comforter just enough for him to slip in next to Moomin. Snuggling in closer to the warm body next to his own, he inhales deeply, taking in the scent of his best friend; clean sheets and pine and something distinctly Moomin. He wraps his arm around the little troll’s middle and nestles his head in the crook between his neck and shoulder. He lets the steady sound of Moomin’s heartbeat lull him into a state of deep relaxation, one in which he feels safe and cared for. He could fall asleep like this in an instant and he almost does until he is awakened by Moomin’s surprised intake of breath and his awed whisper of , “Snuf?”

Snufkin nods against Moomin’s smooth fur and says, “yes”  
He smiles as he can almost hear the frown on Moomin’s face as he asks, “but it isn’t spring. Is it?”  
Moomin struggles to sit up so that he can look out the window and Snufkin makes a sound of displeasure as the space next of him grows colder. He grabs Moomin’s arm firm yet gently and tugs his friend back into the bed, “no, it isn’t. I came back. And..”  
He struggles with the last few words. Saying them would mean that he has to admit that he made a mistake. But Moomin has to know.  
And so he says, voice shaking only the slightest, “I’m sorry, Moomin”  
“It’s alright” Moomin says promptly, so forgiving and kind and devoted, “I’m glad you’re here”

Snufkin laughs in disbelief, heart light with joy, and embraces Moomin tighter. He will have to examine what this, him having decided to stay, means, if it even means anything, but not today. He knows he cannot go into hibernation – humans aren’t made for this kind of dormancy – but he will think on what he shall do with the rest of winter later. For now he will sleep by Moomin’s side and not worry about anything. It will surely nice for once to dream with a friend instead of wandering.  
“Me too, Moomin”  
He looks up and catches Moomin’s eyes. They look at each other briefly, both smiling. Then Moomin murmurs, “goodnight”  
“Sleep tight” Snufkin says, voice already sluggish with drowsiness, and closes his eyes. He drifts off to sleep, feeling warmer than he has in ages. Moomin is there with him and all is right with the world. Snufkin dreams.


End file.
